Solomon Islands, in the South Pacific, remain a monument to World War II and JFK

Getting there: The most direct way is to fly to Fiji and get a connecting flight to Honiara. World War II history begins when you land at the former Henderson Field, wrested away from Japanese forces by U.S. Marines during vicious fighting.

Best (mosquito net-draped) bed: Enchanting tropical-rustic Tavanipupu Island resort is considered the country’s top place to stay. Ocean-facing doubles from $150 a night including airstrip boat transfers.

This year, as America celebrates the 100th anniversary of John F. Kennedy’s birth, I find myself on an itty-bitty palm-shrouded uninhabited island in the far-far-flung South Pacific, with a huge lump in my throat.

I’ve heard the larger-than-life story so many times: during World War II, after lieutenant Kennedy’s PT-109 boat was infamously sunk by a Japanese destroyer, he swam 3 1/2 miles to safety, a strap clenched in his mouth dragging a badly burned sailor and heroically urging on his remaining crew during the perilous four-hour swim.

Staggering ashore, the future beloved 35th U.S. president was marooned. On this very speck of land.

I’ve come by motorboat from a weathered dock where villagers — their teeth brilliant red from chewing (and spitting) betel nuts — ferry occasional foreigners to what is now called Kennedy Island. When I arrive, surprisingly I’m the only tourist. Sand crabs scoot along the ivory beach next to opal-hued waters; geckos scurry up fragrant yellow frangipanis.

It could be paradise. But here, a weary 26-year-old Kennedy hid from the enemy and set out swimming against strong currents looking for help during a six-day survival odyssey. “If he missed this island, maybe he lose his life,” says Joel Nanago, the isle’s caretaker. “Sometimes, I see people in tears.”

I’m in the off-the-radar fascinating country of the Solomon Islands, a stuck-in-time eco-haven where bare-breasted grass-skirted women show me how to make traditional shell money and Pidgin English-speaking locals (“Halo! Welkam!”) paddle hand-carved canoes through coral-spangled aquamarine lagoons. In stark contrast, this idyllic 990-island archipelago is also steeped in bloody World War II history and hauntingly strewn with its wreckage and ghosts. I visit weeks before Monday’s (co: Aug 7) 75th anniversary marking the pivotal six-months-long Battle of Guadalcanal, ferociously fought in this former British protectorate: 7,100 Allied and 31,000 Japanese troops died here.

Ceremonies are being held in this remote nation to commemorate both the tide-turning military offensive and JFK’s centennial.

“You see the bullet holes are still there. So very sad,” says landowner Sylvia Dau, pointing to the metal hulk of an American Douglas Dauntless dive bomber. It rests in a steamy tropical forest surrounded by an astonishing array of decaying U.S. war planes, a Japanese “Betty” bomber, tanks, cannons, and other armaments scattered about.

Dau’s late father-in-law towed the abandoned relics from jungles to create this outdoor Vilu War Museum on the largest island, Guadalcanal. To find it, my guide drove 45 minutes from capital Honiara on its lone main road, then turned into the bush on an unmarked muddy lane some miles after passing a “car wash” sign next to locals cleaning vehicles in a stream.

The sacrifices of 1942-43 permeate Honiara. Bones of soldiers still turn up. Verdant knolls are legendary combat sites, such as Bloody Ridge and The Thin Red Line. My room overlooks the now-calm waters of Iron Bottom Sound, an ocean graveyard for the shelled USS Astoria and 50 other ships that chaotically went down with courageous men.

Little has changed in decades. Lying east of Papua New Guinea, the laid-back “Hapi Isles” have 635,000 inhabitants, mostly Melanesian. They speak over 70 dialects. The majority live sustainably in sparsely populated rural enclaves without electricity.

Woodcarvers create likenesses of nguzunguzu while explaining to me that the ancient big-eared figurehead protects against evil sea spirits. I watch in tribal dress crush and string seashells to create “shell money” still used as currency to settle disputes and as a “bride price” to future in-laws.

One afternoon, I bumpily land in an eight-seater plane on a skinny grass airstrip abutting glittering emerald Marau Sound. A speedboat whisks me to Tavanipupu, a heavenly small island run by canoe-commuting villagers and with just 10 A-frame thatched-roof bungalows, rustling coconut palms and a drum gonged to signal dinner is ready under a rustic pavilion.

Regal lovebirds Prince William and Princess Kate overnighted here in 2012 during an official Pacific tour. (How cheeky is this: in their bungalow, a spray-painted gold toilet seat now hangs over the john. A plaque reads, “The Royal Throne.”)

By motorboat, I cross the pristine coral-ringed lagoon to a humble leaf-hut community of about 30 villagers on Marapa Island. Barefoot children joyously screech when I hand them pens and notebooks as gifts. A friendly grandfather named David, wearing a tattered donated AARP-logo T-shirt, proudly tells me his relatives were “coastwatcher” scouts for Allied forces during the war. I’ve heard a lot about these brave natives who spied on the occupying Japanese and carried supplies for the Americans.

I can’t imagine that in 1942, villagers looked up to see skies exploding. “The Americans gave warnings so we could run into the hills,” David explains. “Americans treated us good during the war.”

Days later, on New Georgia island, I touch down on Munda’s once-embattled runway, where 15 years ago local resident Barney Paulsen dug up his first military find — the dog tag of U.S. serviceman Peter Joseph Palatini.

That launched the memorabilia-crammed Peter Joseph WWII Museum in a dirt-floored shack in Paulsen’s front yard, next to a 250-pound bomb casing. Burrowing with a metal rod, Paulsen amazingly collected thousands of artifacts from nearby foxholes and battle strongholds. It’s the personal items that are so sobering — a soldier’s John Hancock life insurance card, toothbrushes, cigarette cases, razors, combs, marbles, Bromo Seltzer, soap dishes, eating utensils, first aid kits with morphine still in vials.

“A lot of these people never came back,” Paulsen says. “I look at these things and feel very quiet. I have, what do you say goosebumps? They were 18, 19, 20, very young and they got sent to war.”

From Munda, I depart for a half-hour boat trip to face a violent legacy that has nothing to do with World War II. Welkam to Skull Island.

Before I disembark, my guide Tipala assures me blessings have been said so I won’t leave cursed. The sacred isle is a shrine for skulls from gruesome 19th-century headhunting. In those days, cannibal warriors and chiefs raided villages and decapitated foes, collecting heads that supposedly bestowed mystical powers.

“This guy here is the hero,” Tipala gestures at a large cranium. “He can fight 100 people, he can go and kill… He’s a big man. He has a long jaw.”

History moves forward. After another short flight, I’m in Gizo, where betel nut sellers line the colorful dockside market and elderly women smile at me, exposing shocking-red teeth from chewing the popular natural stimulant. From the jetty, it’s a 15-minute boat ride to Kennedy Island. Once there, the caretaker eagerly shows me the life-or-death route that helped propel a man to the presidency.

While on a mission in August 1943, PT-109 was rammed by a Japanese destroyer, killing two of Kennedy’s crew and flinging shipmates overboard into fiery seas. The 11 survivors clung to debris for hours, until Kennedy decided his charges should swim to the tiny islet we’re on.

Over days, Kennedy set out swimming in search of help, and eventually led his exhausted, hungry men to nearby Olasana Island. Two native scouts, Eroni Kumana and Biuku Gasa, found the U.S. sailors and saved their lives. Gasa had Kennedy carve a distress message into a green coconut that the scouts, canoeing 35 miles in enemy waters, delivered to military rescuers.

Years later, Kennedy invited Kumana and Gasa to his inauguration but they couldn’t come. Until he was assassinated, the coconut sat on JFK’s Oval Office desk.

The historic island is now privately owned (although open to the public for a $12.50 entry fee). In 2004, under questionable circumstances, local government officials reportedly sold it to a political advisor for $950. It was later bought for an undisclosed sum by the Australian owner of the nearby Gizo Hotel. He’s no relation to the president, but his name is Shane Kennedy. He put in a small thatched cafe-bar in the sand, added rusted artillery guns and is thinking about building Kennedy Island overwater bungalows.

Meanwhile, a National Geographic expedition in 2002 is believed to have discovered parts of PT-109 entombed 1,200 feet deep on the ocean floor. The wreckage will remain undisturbed; the Navy considers it a gravesite.

If you go

Getting there: The most direct way is to fly to Fiji and get a connecting flight to Honiara. World War II history begins when you land at the former Henderson Field, wrested away from Japanese forces by U.S. Marines during vicious fighting.

Best (mosquito net-draped) bed: Enchanting tropical-rustic Tavanipupu Island resort is considered the country’s top place to stay. Ocean-facing doubles from $150 a night including airstrip boat transfers.